Mad Aunt Bernards Tortoise Poetry

"The page to come and visit for a fabulously sensible intake of poetry straight from the divinest of inspiration - and it's only a bit tortoisy. A cracking good read if you're under anaesthetic."Lord Elpus - The Guardian

Monday, July 6

Ode To Father - Mr Scrimpton Buff-Orpington-Brown

I will explain a few things about father,He is known to many in town.Trebollocks would be blander without him,Mr Scrimpton Buff-Orpington-Brown.His eyebrows sweep rubbish from the streets,He's erratic and changes directions.He is a master woodworker, but strangely,No-one wants to see his erections.The smell of his clothing is legendary,Like cats pee mingled with cloves.He likes to break wind in the library -And send out the public in droves.Everything is labelled with Dymo,Even the Dymo labeller itself.It's kept in a box marked with Dymo,On a clearly marked ricketty shelf.He knows when the freezer was defrosted,By a Dymo label, he's told.But he doesn't know the fridge-life of cheddar,As the date is obscured by grey mould.The man has pamphlets on everything -From scrofula to chronic amnesia.And he's been up to Slimbridge ten more timesThan a Canada Goose with a Visa.Proper poetry must always rhyme,Or he's totally unblattidly appalled.Pam Ayres rules, Plath is pants,and Spike Milligan had no talent at all.To build his collection of objects,He fishes strange things from a skip.Then keeps them ten years for good measure,And takes them off down to the tip.Famous he is, and a legend in town -He's unbeaten in oddness by far.And he'll offer you a lift, when it's raining,If he remembers where he parked the car....

30 comments:

Oooh, i likes it, dear Auntie, and Dymos were deadly cool, I'd completely forgotten them ,now I want one again, an orange one.You could stick dymo written poetry and swear words everywhere .I'm off to ebay to see what I can see.

I write to enquireIf your father you'd hireYou see I'm a terrible hoarderIt's all such a messAnd I really confessTo chaotic and jumbled disorder.....He could sit at the tableAnd label, and labelEating cake cooked to perfectionWhilst I would drink teaAnd unwittingly...........Ask after his latest erection.He could tidy the shedBe up to his headIn nails, screws and jam jars aplentyAnd when he was throughWith labelling the glueHe could pocket his DymoAnd my broken FlymoAnd by moonlight we'd skipOur way to the tip. . . .

A thousand gibbon snibbles for such kind comments - I love the idea of Dymo poetry and swearwords all over the house.And Menopausal, fantastic comment! I take it by your sheer accuracy that you've met him!!

This is my third attempt at leaving a comment - I have gremlins in my cables! I couldn't stop laughing as I read your latest piece, and as I tried to type my comment. It is hilarious and marvellous and probably your best yet. Oh to know someone like that!!

Thanks to the Freedom of Information Act I am now able to bore you with the exciting details of the days I once spent as a Dymo secret agentI had to go deep under cover then suddenly appear in front of people and label them on behalf of the governmentIf I was ever challenged I merely bleated "Meh!" taking great care over my diction and annunciation so as to avoid any law suit from Lord Melchet for impersonationI would randomly label people as "bone idol" "black" "communist" "noisey" or quite often "smells of cat pee mingled with cloves"The labels had to be placed correctly in the centre of the forehead right way up.This was necessary to avoid the need for people to lie on their backs and looking up and slightly backwards to read them. It saved me a great deal of effort too as I otherwise would have had to label these people "bone idol" through no fault of their ownResearch tended to show that this irritated people too much and the government couldn't afford too much in those days as illicit claims had yet to be passed by parliamentI was never allowed to label my own Dymo machine lest it fell into enemy hands. Its existence was always strongly denied as it was a device marked "Top Secret" in crayon so as not to arouse suspicionAn interesting mishap I once had, due to being overcome from the dreadful fumes of a person much like your father and the subsequent shaking of my hands, was that I had incorrectly printed the word "SBOB" and not "SLOB" as I had intendedI couldn't make much of it then, for fear of blowing my cover, so I merely secreted the label, white lettering on a blue background, incidentally, into my pocketI have kept it all these years to prove that I am human and a self labelled man. Fortunately I spelt "Self" correctly. Imagine how daft one would look with a misspelt Dymo label on ones forehead.Unfortunately the adhesive on the back is no longer effective but it would make a great place setting for your father, provided that he did not move about, as I would find it much too tiresome to have to re site it constantly

MAB this is an absolute cracker. Please make sure you read it to Cybil when he gets home - he will wee himself! It's Dad to an absolute T, you witch! No wonder Mum laughed - to think she aided to the moulding of such a character - I'd have denied all knowledge if I were her!

The comments you've received were almost as good, too - I particularly loved Menopausals and Professor Yaffles - they deserve to be posted in their own right.

Hello Yaff! What a fabulous comment - I had no idea you labelled people for the government! How exciting, I might label my forehead this evening just to see what it's like...

Weev, dear, I would rather he didn't wee himself as it's not nice. But I shall draw his attention to it, provided he's standing in the bath....

Hello Poe! My mother is a bit of a saint, really, you can see for yourself if you click her name in these comments, it's Heather. On the surface, she is remarkably normal - but behind shut down laptop screens, she has razor sharp wit and an evil sense of humour.

Ah.. Dymo's ...there is no nobler creation... other than a Lint remover .. that I can think of..Did Father stick labels to labels..?I remember whittling away many a happy hour...clicking illiterate name tags with my trusty Dymo contraption,... oh sweet memories.

Your father does sound just a little eccentric, Aunt Bernard! Mine was too, (one of his hobbies was to record the sound of Lucozade bubbling in the glass). I love the lines about the cheese date obscured by mould!

Dear Dearer Dearest Most expensive but of value MABHave I truly forgotten your one hundred and eleventy twelve birthday?If so I shall immediately set about flagellating some beansForgive me once more for it not being my back but I am sure that that would hurtykins and I have already been Mummy's brave soldier this weekI hope above all hopes that it was a lovely day and that you will have many more

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